


Be All You Can Be

by Zanne Chaos (Kuchenhexe)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Dom/sub, Domme Dante, F/M, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-31
Updated: 2007-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuchenhexe/pseuds/Zanne%20Chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fine, loyal soldier. That was a good thing, wasn't it? Then why did it sound so vulgar coming from her? Frank Archer meets the power behind Amestris during his recovery from Liore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be All You Can Be

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FMA_Fuh_Q Archer Month. Non-consensual femmedomme kinky penis-free mild smut and uh... mucous membranes tend to decay first, so uh... If you don't get the implications, you might not want to read this over dinner.

>   
> _What's your plan? My plan is pain._   
> _When will you leave? I'll never go away._   
> _My name is Pain, you belong to me._   
> _From the beginning in a world without end,_   
> _I am the air, I am Pain._   
>  \- Elton John   
> 

  


 

Pain.

That was the only awareness it had. There was nothing beyond, above, below or before it, no further existence beyond different shades of pain. White-hot or a dull, numbed dark, ebbing into each other.

Pain.

In a matter of minutes or over the course of a lifetime, the pain receded. It became aware of things beyond, a sense of a soft firmness beneath it, a cool breeze from time to time, sharp pricks and flareups of white heat as something bumped and poked and prodded.

There was no name. No gender. No awareness or consciousness beyond that minuscule window.

In time, that changed too. It became a he, the softness gained the name of bed, and a comprehension of the surroundings was formed, logical conclusions drawn by things within reach -- a hospital of sorts. A name, a past, a _why_ to any of it, those still evaded him.

Faces and voices came and went, hands touching him, clinical and efficient, changing bandages, replacing tubes, sharp pricks of needles. They blurred together in an undulating sea of white -- white coats, white caps, white uniforms. White against the drab gray walls that were only lit by the naked bulbs from the light fixtures. No windows, at least none that he could see in his limited scope, and there was never a trace of sunlight.

He still hurt. The awareness was a double-edged sword. The grounding it gave him beyond drifting in a barely-conscious state gave him a sense of strength, an anchor to tether himself to. But it also made the reality of pain keener, less abstract. That was made tolerable by the frequent lapses into lesser awareness, a darkened state where time had no meaning.

They came and went, and the moments of clarity became stronger. He was aware now of a bone-dry parched feeling in his throat and mouth.

_Water._

It was the enduring thought in his mind as the darkness closed over him again, and it was distinctly present again once the room came back.

Another white-robed form hovered in his vision. Brown hair. White cap. A nurse. 

_Water_.

He reached to her -- his mind sent the signals, but only one hand raised against the protest of every muscle, every fiber in his being. _Water._ She recoiled, a look of horror, and all that came out of his mouth was a dusty, hoarse noise like something old, decrepit, and rotten in a grave.

"Doctor!"

Her voice -- even then, he recognized fear, and a sick, hard, cold lump knotted inside of him. What had happened to him? What _was_ he? _Who_ was he, for that matter?

Fields of blue. Blue and... and... hot harsh sun. Memories. Impressions, too swift and fleeting to pin down, intangible wraiths in the far corners of his mind. He couldn't say who he was. But there were... _things_. Those feelings. He knew the vague whispery glimpses through the fog were _his_. He was in there, somewhere.

What _was_ he? Was he burnt, perhaps? Horribly disfigured by--

A snap. A blaze.

He startled, and tried to grab hold of that memory again, that face -- was there an answer there? It was too frustrating, the teasing brief moments of _almost_ , and he tried to lift his hand again, to look at it, to touch his face.

Pressure. Another face moved into view. A woman. Not a nurse. Her face and eyes were hard, cold, accentuated by the short bob of her dark hair. He met her gaze. She smiled, and another emotion replaced the frustration, the thirst, the pain.

_Fear_.

Who was _she_?

"There, now. You don't want to do that. It's good to see you're doing so much better. We weren't certain we'd be able to save you." Her words were friendly. Hell, her _tone_ was friendly. But there was something in her eyes that just wasn't _human_. He broke eye contact and tried to look away, to look for someone else, to try somehow to alert the staff, to beg them to make her go away.

It was _critical_ she went away and did not come back. He didn't remember his name, but he knew that. It was visceral, innate. There was no one there.

"You've done a fine job, soldier. When you're back on your feet, come see me about a promotion." That voice, deep and smooth, woke another memory, and it went with the face that moved next to the dark-haired woman. A man's face, one eye covered by a patch. He knew that face. He _knew_ \--

_Fuhrer_.

That was it. Fuhrer. Fuhrer Bradley. Military. The fields of blue in his mind's eye congealed into shapes, human-like. Soldiers.

He was a soldier.

"There was a terrible ordeal," she said, and reached for his forehead. He wanted to flinch but his muscles would not cooperate. "You almost died. Half of your body has been irreparably damaged. Well, perhaps it is misleading to say _irreparably_. A fine, loyal soldier like you, you were clearly spared for a reason."

A fine, loyal soldier. That was a good thing, wasn't it? Then why did it sound so _vulgar_ coming from her?

"Your service record is exemplary, and your loyalty to Amestris and our greater cause is deserving of reward."

Greater cause? Who _was_ she?

"If not for your valor and dedication to orders, we would not have had the ingredients we needed to make the Philosopher's Stone, since the citizens of Liore had evacuated under the cover of night," she continued. "Soldiers are expected to die in battle, sacrificing their lives for their country. You're among the handful of survivors left from the battalion, but unlike an ordinary battle, you can feel the sleep of the just knowing that their lives were given for a cause far greater than just territory."

He tried to remember. Liore -- he knew that name. Whispering memories flittered past, he could _almost_ place the where, the what. But a battle... that was something beyond the scope. It wasn't even a dim whisper. Maybe it was for the better, if so many men died, and for what? A stone?

_Philosopher's Stone_.

Wasn't that just rumor? A kind of holy grail of alchemists? Why would Bradley be interested in that? Was it for the state alchemists, his spoiled, pampered lap dogs?

He felt a flicker of grim amusement as his thoughts, at the disdain he felt when he'd only just then remembered the state alchemist. _At least I know I don't much care for them._

Then another memory taunted him, flashes of gold and brilliant sunlight. _Don't send those soldiers!_

Don't send them.

Did he? Had he?

_What have I done?_ He wasn't even certain what was going on, and he knew he didn't want to.

And why was he remembering being told to _stop_? The fuhrer was pleased -- they wanted the Stone made, obviously. His head hurt, everything hurt, nothing made sense.

Hallucination. That was it, the only sane, sensible answer. He wasn't sure what he was hallucinating or why, but that explained everything else. He just needed to wake up now. 

Right?

She was still talking, but he couldn't hear her. Her voice was there, but without words, fading out into white noise. The dark was coming back again.

Maybe this time he would wake up.

***

A powerful shockwave of pain so intense that it robbed him of his ability to breathe woke him. Only after the blinding spots in his vision started to abate did he catch the sound of voices near him. And then it was gone again with another wave of pain and he tried to cry out.

"The patient is awake."

Something soothingly cool, wet, and slightly rough was dabbed against his forehead and cheek, and little by little, the sharp pain tapered off to a constant ache, localized all down his left side. His left arm and leg didn't hurt so much as tingled, like thousands of uncomfortable tiny pins were prickling over the skin in waves.

"His nervous system is responsive, and although he's weaker than I'd like, he's a good candidate for the surgery."

Archer opened his eyes -- eye? He realized then he couldn't see out his left side, unable to see the source of the masculine voice. "Surgery?" he whispered, and looked up at the face of the dark-haired woman from earlier.

"A bit of pain is going to be unavoidable, as the doctor needs your nerves responsive for the automail," she said, and turned her attention away from him. "I trust you've finished the modifications to prevent a repeat from your earlier failures?"

Automail? Suddenly, he was afraid again, afraid to see why his left side _hurt_ so much. Automail was such a routine surgery, even... even...

Another flash of memory, a boy, an arm of metal. _Fullmetal_. Golden eyes. _Stop! Don't send those soldiers!_

Why was there a question of failure? It wasn't going to be a regular surgery, was it?

"There is nothing wrong with my procedure. Automail surgery is stressful even when someone is in good health. The patient is barely alive, but he's in better condition than the previous ones you've given me."

Archer tried to turn his head, he had to know, had to _see_. The doctor's voice was neither as loud nor as clear as the woman standing to his right. "What happened?" he croaked, hoping the words were understandable.

She looked down at him and smiled, and he felt sick. Military training hadn't prepared him for this. There was something beyond normality, beyond possibility. He couldn't say what, didn't _know_ what, but the feeling was _there_. Then she looked away to the doctor again. "Leave us." It was an order. Whoever she was, she had that authority. "And I do not wish to be disturbed."

"Yes, ma'am."

He croaked a protest and lifted his hand as much as he could and tried to stop the man from leaving, only to be ignored.

"There, there. No reason for you to be so agitated," she chided him, and her tone was friendly. He could only watch her, wishing he _could_ get up and leave. "Colonel Frank Archer. Such a loyal soldier..."

Archer... Archer... yes. That was his name. The cool shock of clarity as well as the realization that he'd not readily recalled his own name distracted him briefly.

He tried to jerk his head away from her hand, but her fingers tightened against his cheek and chin, pushing his head harder to the pillow, pinning him. "Did I say you could do that?" Her voice was such a stark contrast to her hand. "You are mine, Colonel. Just like everyone else in Amestris. I made this country, and it does my bidding. Your loyalty, your life, it belongs to _me_."

_What are you talking about?_ She was a madwoman, with delusional ravings. Some secret puppetmaster behind the throne was something that only existed in cliched fiction.

"You owe me a great deal now, Colonel. If not for my quick orders, you would have been left to perish in the sands of Liore, and that would hardly be a fitting death for someone who helped me create what I've been working toward for so long. Your determination to impress Bradley and demonstrate the might of Amestris was invaluable to me. Saving you was very expensive, but you make a good test subject for the latest in automail developments. Serving your country with all you are, isn't that what you always wanted, Colonel?"

He didn't dare try to respond, not that he was capable of more than a few harsh syllables even if he tried.

"What better reward for someone so dedicated as you to be reborn as a perfect machine of war?"

Archer decided he didn't particularly care for the sound of that.

"There really aren't any other options left to you, I'm afraid." She released his face and he watched as she stepped away, bringing something over to the bed. A hand mirror. "Would you care to see the results of your most recent battle?"

He shut his eyes, ignoring the twisted feeling low in his gut. _No, I don't._

A sharp slap on his right cheek startled him into opening them again and... the mirror.

It was like a window into a nightmare.

Half of his face was in bandages. The shape was all wrong, flatter than it should be. His mind refused to _let_ himself process that information. He desperately wanted to close his eyes -- _no, it was just eye now. Singular._ \-- as she shifted the mirror, affording him a better view of the rest of him. But he couldn't bring himself to look away, like a nightmare in which he was paralyzed.

_You might as well be._

Part of him wanted to believe he was looking through a window into some horrible mirror universe, that it wasn't _him_ in the mirror, laying there with half of his body just _gone_. 

"You see?" Her voice broke the spell, like being plunged into an icy river, and he couldn't _breathe_. It was cold, too cold. "You couldn't survive without me. But by the time we're finished, you will be the pinnacle of Amestris's technological and military accomplishments." He listened, even though he didn't want to, and tried again to wake himself up from a _nightmare_ , just a nightmare, nothing like what he saw, what she was describing, could be _real_. He listened as she described the automail attachments, how they would turn him into some kind of half-man, half-machine abomination.

_They can't do it if you're dead._

With a burst of strength he would have thought to be beyond him, Archer reached across the remains of his body and tried to grab a handful of wires and tubes and needles to rip them out of place, hoping that one of them would cut him off, would let him _die_. 

But before his dulled fingers could work the way he needed them to, she caught his wrist and pulled his arm back down.

"That wasn't a very smart thing to do, Colonel." Her grip hurt. Her fingernails dug into his skin. She was hardly gentle about wrenching his arm back down to the bed. Her words were hard, out of sync with that smile, or maybe in perfect harmony with it. "Whatever _were_ you trying to do? You're government property, you know. I'd be remiss in letting you damage it. You're _my_ property. And I want you healthy and back in my little wars again. Well, provided the surgery succeeds and doesn't go the way of the last five."

_Please let it fail, please let it fail._

"You just don't seem to understand, I own you. Your life is mine to do with as I please. And _this_? It pleases me."

"No."

Her laughter was thoroughly unpleasant. "What can I do to help you understand the way things _really_ are in Amestris? The way they have _always_ been? Had I wanted you for a lover, you would have been mine to toy with and control. You'd be amazed at what can be accomplished when one understands the Truth of All Things, with or without a red stone."

Alchemist? She was an _alchemist_? 

_Wouldn't it just figure? They're usually the ones to own your ass, aren't they?_

Archer viciously told his little internal voice to shut up.

"I really don't want to have to do any further modifications to you, but don't think I won't if you make me. Do you understand now?" She yanked his hand toward herself and pressed it against her hip, the thick fabric of her skirts not fully concealing the shape and dip beneath. He lacked the strength to pull away, and even if he didn't, the effort alone hurt.

She smirked. There was no longer even a pretense of friendliness. "You don't like that? I wonder why. Could it be because your preferences go in another direction? Don't think I haven't heard about some of your activities."

He wondered again who she was that she was in such a position of information and control. "You won't..." The few more syllables which followed were incoherent even to his own ears, his throat, his mouth, his _body_ too damaged to speak.

"I won't what? I won't do it? I won't succeed? I won't be able to make you do what I say? You're wrong on all counts. I _will_ do it, and I _do_ know how to... shall we say, _change_ someone's mind to be more cooperative. I don't like having to do so, as it does waste a red stone, but if you force me to, I have no qualms about restructuring your mind into... the perfect soldier you used to be before your injures gave you a misplaced sense of morality."

Again, he tried to move his hand, to rip out the support wires and tubes, but she held fast to his wrist. "And I will succeed. You are mine. There is nothing I cannot do, and nothing I won't do. The sooner you realize this, the easier it will be for you."

She was still pressing his hand to her skirts, and her face was flushed now, her eyes brighter as she kept speaking of how much control she had, how much power was at her command, and her lips drew back away from her teeth in a smile that looked more feral than friendly. 

"I can make you do _anything_ I want. You are _mine_ to control. All of you are. Amestris is under my rule, my command, and all of you belong to me. I made you, Frank Archer. And I will remake you as I see fit."

_She is mad._

"If I wanted to make you do this..." With one hand, she pulled her skirts up her legs. A dank scent made him cringe, a long ago and far away flash of memory of a crypt in a graveyard as a young boy playing hide and seek flickered by, an unexpected, sudden ghost of the past. Rot and death and ruin. "I can."

She pressed his hand up against the apex of her thighs, and the dank scent of decay grew stronger. He tried to turn his head away, but with her free hand, she seized his jaw and forced him to look at her. When he closed his eyes, she slapped him. 

Her breathing became quick and labored, and her hips gyrated forward as she began to grind against his hand. He tried to curl his fingers, to make a fist, to pull away from the slick heat, but she gasped and twisted the angle of her hips to better shove his fingers inside of her. He tried to ignore the smell and the taste of bile rising, and again he tried to close his eyes to be slapped until he opened them.

The woman's cheeks were flushed scarlet, and her breath came in unsteady, raspy gasps as her body moved quicker. She fucked herself harder with his hand, and at the moment of climax, he feared she might snap his wrist when her grip tightened. She cried out -- it wasn't a loud sound, but unmistakable all the same -- and sagged against the bed, against him, as tremors continued to ripple along her nerves.

When she raised her head to look at him, her smile could only be described as _nasty_. "I would have returned the favor, but I'm afraid you're no longer equipped to serve me in quite _that_ manner." She pulled his hand away from her, and let it fall against his face.

Pain lanced him at the dry heaves, spurred on by the intense stench of rot clinging to his fingers. Bile burned his throat, making him cough, and when he opened his eye and saw his hand, he wished he hadn't.

"Remember, Colonel. I _own_ you. I will do as I please, when I please. How easy it is will be up to you and your sense of duty and cooperation. You are a soldier. My orders _will_ be obeyed. Think about that." She smiled, the expression cold and mean, and patted his remaining shoulder. "The nurse will be by as soon as she can to clean you up. I'm afraid it won't be for another hour or two. You'll be fine until then, right?"

Left alone in the dim white hospital room, in the silence, with just the scent of rot and the taste of bile and a never-ending sensation of pain in various stages, Frank Archer came to a conclusion.

The Ishbalites had been right about a hell after all.

**\- end**


End file.
